


Life In-Between

by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Ghost John, Grief/Mourning, Limbo, M/M, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/pseuds/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson took the bullet meant for Sherlock.  And Sherlock is not coping well.  Now John must watch as Sherlock mourns the loss and tries to cope with the fact there may or may not be a spirit following him around as John struggles to find a way to communicate with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life In-Between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Willie_The_Plaid_Jacket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willie_The_Plaid_Jacket/gifts).



> Prompted by willietheplaidjacket on tumblr, I originally had a ficlet written out. Then it became this massive thing that has been a labor of love. Then when Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 6 was posted, I realized this probably fits the "worst fear" category on both Sherlock and John's parts.

_John wasn’t sure what was going on.  First of all, he’d managed to walk in on Sherlock without Sherlock hearing him. Secondly, Sherlock was crying.  And just like everything Sherlock did, he managed to make crying eloquent.  Tears slipped silently from his silver eyes, falling gracefully down his cheeks onto the paper he held in his hand.  John wished he could reach out and wipe the tears away, but that would be too forward._

 

_“Um,” John cleared his throat, “Sherlock?” he asked tentatively.  “What’s wrong?”  Sherlock didn’t answer him._

 

_“Sherlock?” John asked gently._

 

_Sherlock didn’t cry.  John was beginning to escalate from confusion to worry.  Still no answer._

 

_John tried one more time, “Sherlock, I’m going to make tea.  Then please tell me what’s going on.”  He reached out to give Sherlock’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.  But instead of connecting with Sherlock’s firm shoulder, John’s hand passed through it.  Sherlock shivered and another tear fell._

 

_“What the hell?” John asked shocked.  He held his hand up, realizing it wasn’t solid.  He looked down, none of his body was actually corporal.  It was then that John read the paper in Sherlock’s hand. “Autopsy Report of John H. Watson.  Cause of death: Gunshot wound to the chest.”  John gasped, grabbing at his chest, as the memories of the past week came flooding back to him._

 

Sherlock sat looking at the paper in his hand, willing it not to be real, tears blurring the ink.  He’d always been a stubborn man, perhaps he could be stubborn enough to will the Earth to spin backwards around the sun and rewind the past week.  If he could do that, he’d lock John and himself inside the flat and never accept that damn case.  Then John would still be alive, laughing at something ridiculous on the telly and making him tea.  Or gently teasing him about astronomy, something he’d started doing since Sherlock admitted to studying it while he had been gone.  Instead John was cold and buried in the ground because he’d taken the bullet meant for Sherlock.

 

Sherlock was a man of science and of reason, but he would give it all up if he could just make the world rewind and give him back John.  He crumpled the piece of paper in anger, throwing it at the wall, and then gave in to the gut wrenching sobs.

 

_John watched helplessly as Sherlock cried. He wanted to reach out, to comfort and reassure Sherlock that he was here, hold him close and let him know he would never leave Sherlock, not even in death. He stared at his hands, intangible wisps in the ether, cursing them.  He regretted every moment he’d wanted to reach out and touch the man but held back.  Now he never would get the chance._

 

_John didn’t regret saving Sherlock’s life, not for an instant. But to be caught in this limbo, being forced to watch the man who mattered most grieve for him and not be able to offer any comfort, this was hell.  Who knew what ends Sherlock might go to?  If Irene’s faked death had been a danger night, what might John’s very real death be to the man?_

 

_John screamed in anger and frustration at the unfairness of it all.  He kicked at the table, tried to throw the mugs in the sink, balled his fist and punched at the fridge door, but his hands passed through everything, barely even causing the note on the fridge to flutter.  Sherlock raised his head, eyes red-rimmed and swollen.  John froze, remembering that Sherlock had shivered as he had tried to squeeze his shoulder earlier.  Maybe, just maybe there was some way to communicate with Sherlock.  John wasn’t sure how the rules worked, here in limbo, but he’d be damned (maybe he already was) if he was going to let them keep him from Sherlock._

 

Sherlock raised his head, so sure that he’d heard something, but all he saw was the barest fluttering of the note John had left on the fridge reminding him to pick up more milk.  Sherlock looked around him, suddenly aware of everything that reminded him of John.  The laptop he would no longer hunt-and-peck-type at sat unused on the desk, the lonesome chair in front of the fireplace  waiting for John to sink into it after a long day, the cluedo board that John swore never to play with him again, and that damn note that seemed to be insistent on fluttering on the fridge.  Sherlock stood up, suddenly angry.  Angry at John for shoving him out of the way, angry at the doctors who couldn’t save him, angry at the world for allowing it to happen.  And right now, he was especially angry at that little fluttering note!  Sherlock didn’t know why, but he didn’t really need a reason. He headed towards the fridge, intending to yank the note down and tear it to shreds, but before he could reach for the note, he walked straight into what felt like an icy wall and froze.

 

_John had been focusing all his energy on trying to make the note on the fridge move, hoping that Sherlock would notice.  He saw Sherlock rise, but before he could move, Sherlock walked right into him and stopped.  It was an odd sensation.  John could feel Sherlock’s heart beat, his sharp intake of breath, the struggle to move his limbs, and the icy tingling sensation prickling across Sherlock’s skin.  John quickly moved away from the fridge, realizing he was the cause and not wanting Sherlock to be in any more distress.  As soon as he moved, Sherlock sagged, his arm lowered and he sank into the nearest chair, a wary and concerned look on his face._

 

Just as suddenly as the icy wall was there, it was gone.  Sherlock sat abruptly in the nearest chair, anger forgotten.  He knew every inch of this flat.  He knew where the air currents were, how they moved depending on the ambient temperature of the rooms.  And he knew, with absolute certainty there were no drafts, no cold breezes, nothing that could have caused the icy wall he’d walked into causing him to freeze.  Not even when the fridge was open was the air that cold.  And the thing was, the air hadn’t moved.  It was as if the frigid air was there, then gone.  No breeze, no wind.  Nothing.  He racked his brain to find a rational explanation for the odd occurrence.  And came up with...nothing rational.  The only thing he could fathom surfaced from the dusty corners of his Mind Palace, an old wives tale of spirits trapped between worlds and the way a person felt as they walked through them.  It was either that, or, Sherlock concluded, he was losing his mind.

 

_John could see as the thoughts flickered across Sherlock’s face and saw the moment he came to the conclusion that he might be losing his mind.  “You’re not crazy.  I’m right here in front of you!  Please, please don’t think you’re going insane.  That brilliant mind is not going to waste away.” John pleaded, unheard.  He knew Sherlock’s greatest fear was to lose his mental prowess.  John wanted to reach up and run his fingers through the messy curls, just to comfort Sherlock.  But even if he could, John knew this would only lead to more confusion on Sherlock’s part.  Maybe there was a reason spirits in limbo didn’t try to communicate with their loved ones?_ _To watch them grieve was bad enough, but to watch them believe they were slowly going insane?  That was worse.  Sure, he could try to let Sherlock know he was there, but at what price?_

 

_John sobbed, but no tears fell to mark his grief._

 

_John was careful from then on.  He stayed close to Sherlock, trying to send out comforting thoughts, but never so close that Sherlock might accidentally walk into him.  Then came the day John found that it wasn’t the flat he was tied to, but Sherlock.  The first time Sherlock left the flat, John found himself pulled to follow.  He wasn’t sure where Sherlock was going, but he went with him, doing his best to avoid anyone else on the street.  Occasionally he’d brush up against someone’s arm and they’d shiver, but John succeeded for the most part. He cringed when he realized where they were headed.  He’d stood at Sherlock’s mock headstone too many times before Sherlock had returned.  Except this time, the headstone was no placekeeper, but a solid monument to a man dead.  Sherlock stopped at the pale grey granite bearing John’s name.  Yes, this most definitely was hell, John decided as he listened to Sherlock’s barely contained sobs and emotional dialogue.  Everything John had always wanted to hear from Sherlock poured out of the man’s mouth.  How much he had cared, how he wished they’d had more time together, how if John were only alive right now how he’d tell him, hold him, and never let him go. Sherlock apologized for getting John killed.  He blamed himself for accepting the case, for not being more alert, for being the target, and for not realizing what John was about to do.  John covered his ears, not wanting to hear anymore, but to no avail.  His non-corporal hands did about as much good blocking the words as they did trying to comfort the man saying them.  John was sure that if he had a heart still, it would be breaking right now.  What had he done to deserve this hell on earth?_

 

Sherlock trudged slowly back to the flat.  He had hoped, by going to John’s grave and speaking the words that had been taking up all the space in his head, that he would be able to finally let go and move past this crushing grief and guilt he felt.  “Sentiment,” his brother would have scoffed in the past, but even Mycroft had backed off in his disdain lately.  Unfortunately, all the trip had served to do was tire him out and pour salt in the emotional wounds that showed no signs of healing.  Sherlock cursed himself for not being able to “divorce himself” from these feelings.  His emotions were all over the place these days, jumping between anger, despair, sadness, and guilt.  He’d lash out at himself, Mrs. Hudson, even the memories of John.  He couldn’t focus on anything, not even the work.  His violin playing had become erratic and once he found himself on the verge of throwing the precious instrument in the fire.  He’d lived without John before.  That was a choice he’d made to save John’s life.  He did so knowing that John was alive and that he would be able to return one day.  It had been hard, oh so hard, but he always knew the reward at the end that would be returning to John and their flat.  Now.  Now there was no hope, no light at the end of the tunnel.  All of that hard work he’d done, everything he’d sacrificed, was for nothing.  He’d not even been back a year.  They were supposed to have more time together.  Sherlock choked back a sob as he walked, finally approaching Speedy’s.  Just a few more feet.  Those few feet and then he could close the door of 221B behind him and bury his face in the pillows of John’s bed. Damn his emotions and sentiment.

 

_John watched helplessly as Sherlock cried himself to sleep, cradling John’s pillow.  He lay down on the bed next to Sherlock and watched as the harsh lines of the day fell away.  But even in sleep, Sherlock’s brow remained furrowed, dark circles under his eyes from crying and lack of sleep, the tracks of his tears staining his cheeks, his mouth still turned down into a frown.  This was not how John had pictured Sherlock in his bed_ _._ _He had imagined glorious love making, lazy lie ins with the sun pouring in, watching Sherlock sleep peacefully after running rampant on a case.  Instead, a man in mourning lay on John’s side of the bed clutching at what little remnants of John he could find._

 

_After their visit to the cemetery, John wasn’t sure how much more he or Sherlock could take.  He reached out, knowing Sherlock was asleep, and tried to lightly brush back the errant curl that always seemed to plague him.  He willed his hand to be as solid as it could, hovering just above the dark brown lock and to John’s great surprise, it worked.  He could barely feel the curl, but it moved as John stroked it back into the mop of curls on Sherlock’s head.  Sherlock sighed and made as if to flick John’s hand away.  John jerked his hand back before Sherlock could touch him, scared that if Sherlock did wake, he’d think himself going insane again at the touch of an icy hand.  “But at least,” John thought, “at least, I can touch him when he sleeps.”  And he hoped, that would be comfort enough to get them through their days.  Because John had a nagging thought that soon, Sherlock would seek comfort in his old ways._

 

Sherlock slowly descended the stairs from John’s room to the living area below, closing the curtains against the harsh morning light and people going about their lives as if John Watson had never existed. He knew Mrs. Hudson had opened them in an effort to help and was in the kitchen waiting with breakfast for him.  The thought of eating anything was revolting, but he managed to choke down some toast and tea just to please her.  She tried to make light conversation, encouraging him to find another case or take a holiday.  Sherlock looked up at her, an angry retort on his lips, but before he could get the words out he noticed something odd.  There, just behind Mrs. Hudson, was an outline of something.  It wasn’t anything he could actually make out, just a light shadow that seemed out of place.  He squinted and then blinked, trying to make it go away.  It moved when she walked, as if to avoid coming into contact with her.  He studied it, trying to make out what he was seeing.  As if sensing it was being watched the not-shadow quickly moved past the fridge, out of Sherlock’s line of sight.  As it did so, John’s note about the milk fluttered.

 

_SHIT!  John wasn’t sure what changed or how it had happened, but Sherlock had definitely sensed him.  Maybe it was because John willed his hand to solid to touch him, he didn’t know.  But Sherlock looked straight at him and John had seen the moment the light bulb went on in his head that there was something behind Mrs. Hudson.  He’d been trying to stay out of the way, avoid touching either her or Sherlock in the too small kitchen. He’d succeeded, but by placing himself behind Mrs. Hudson, he’d put himself in Sherlock’s line of sight.  He was sure Sherlock didn’t know what it was he had seen.  If Sherlock had recognized him, nothing would have stopped Sherlock from saying so. The last thing Sherlock needed was to be seeing things when he was already was in a fragile state of mind.  John knew all it would take would be a little push and Sherlock would believe he was going insane.  There was no way Sherlock would believe that John lingered here in limbo, connected to him in death as much as he had been in life.  Sherlock was a man of science and reason.  Not spiritual mumbo-jumbo.  In fact, John was still not certain as to why he hadn’t moved on or what was on the other side, or if this really was his own personal hell.  All he knew was, he was not about to let Sherlock slide down the slippery slope of madness._

 

Sherlock sat, rubbing his temples in disbelief.  Mrs. Hudson excused herself, patting his arm as she left. There was absolutely no rational explanation for what he had seen, Sherlock was sure of it. Even though he had slept the night before, Sherlock’s mind was feeling exhausted, stretched thin, and he knew his brain wasn’t functioning properly.  It hadn’t been since the day John was shot.  He needed to get his thought process back.  And he knew what it would take to make that happen.

 

Sherlock rose, walking over to the mantle, pushing the hidden notch that only he knew was there.  A small, silver, rectangular box fell into his hands.  Inside was the drug he’d used to help quiet the noise and enhance his thought process as a youth.  He’d promised John, once, that he wouldn’t turn to it again.  But, Sherlock thought, neither he nor John had ever anticipated this. He just needed to know that he wasn’t losing his mind, that there was some rational way to explain the shade, the note fluttering, the icy blast he’d walked into that day.  He pulled everything out of the case, arranging it neatly on the table, and he began to prepare the solution and syringe.  Once, he’d been a neat addict, always properly measuring and making sure he had just enough to get what he needed out of a high, but Sherlock found his hands shaking and his eyes blurring with tears throughout the process.  What had once been muscle memory was now replaced with emotional ineptitude.  He found that he didn’t care.  He just needed to know.  Sherlock tied the tourniquet tight and found a vein.  He plunged the syringe in, feeling the needle pierce his skin. He inhaled sharply and injected the solution into his body. Closing his eyes, he waited for the clarity it would bring.

 

 _John watched helplessly in horror, unable to stop Sherlock from shooting up.  He didn’t care that Sherlock couldn’t hear him.  John couldn’t help himself.  Storming up to Sherlock he yelled, “YOU PROMISED!”  Sherlock flinched, his eyes shot open, staring right at him.  John could see his pupils were dilated so wide there was barely any color of the iris to be seen._ “John?!”

  
Sherlock found himself staring at a figure that looked like John.  It was dressed in the oatmeal jumper, collared shirt, and denim jeans he’d been wearing the day John died.  But, it...it couldn’t really be John, could it?  This John was...see-through?  But there was no mistaking the look on figure’s face.  It was the same mix of care, concern, fondness, and something more that John always wore around Sherlock, and in this case anger.  “John?” Sherlock tentatively asked again, “Is that you?”  Reaching out, he tried to touch John, but his hand passed through icy nothingness.  

 

 _That Sherlock could see and talk to him due to the drugs wasn’t something John had realized could happen.  He stared at Sherlock, shocked and surprised.  “Sherlock? Can you hear me?”  Sherlock nodded, tears falling down his face, unheeded.  “Sherlock, you promised.  I know you’re confused, but please, you have to believe me.  You’re not losing your mind,” John said kneeling in front of Sherlock’s chair at the table.   “I know you need proof.”  He closed his eyes trying to think of something he could tell Sherlock, something Sherlock didn’t know.  An idea sprang to mind.  “Sherlock, look in my family Bible. It’s where the last letter my mother wrote me is.” He looked up, waiting for the questions he knew were coming, but Sherlock only asked one…_ ”How?”

 

_John shook his head, sighing sadly.  “I don’t know.  I didn’t even know I was dead until I saw you reading the autopsy report.  I wouldn’t have believed it myself, if I weren’t the one caught in limbo.  I don’t know how to explain to you why I am or how I got here.  I don’t even know what the ‘rules’ are here.  All I know is that it’s you I’m tied to.  Wherever you go, I follow.”  Smiling ruefully, John unconsciously tried to place his hand on Sherlock’s arm to reassure him, but it passed through, causing Sherlock to shiver.  They both looked at John’s hand sadly._

  
“If you can hear and see everything I do then, why did it take me getting high to be able to actually see and hear you?” Sherlock asked, his voice shaking.  He watched as John shook his head, no answer available. They sat in silence as Sherlock tried to process what he had been told.  He leapt up and began pacing between the kitchen and living area.

“I know I promised you. I know you’re angry, John, but wouldn’t you say this is worth it?  Being able to talk to each other again.  See each other!  Isn’t it worth the price?”  Sherlock’s voice escalated with excitement as he realized this was all it would take to be able to be with John again.  “And maybe if I increase the dose?  Maybe?  You...I...we could touch.” Sherlock looked at John hopefully.

 

_“Please, Sherlock.  I…I…” John was at a loss for words.  The look of hope in Sherlock’s eyes, the idea that, yes, they could actually talk was so, SO tempting.  But John knew encouraging him to pick up the drugs again was a bad idea. He shook his head, and he saw the hope fall from Sherlock’s face._

 

_“Wait!” John begged, “Just...wait.”  He concentrated like he had the night before, raising his hand, “This will probably feel odd,” he warned Sherlock.  As Sherlock nodded, John locked eyes with him and cupped Sherlock’s face in his hand.  Sherlock inhaled sharply at the ghostly touch and raised his hand as if to grab John’s but his hand passed through John’s and merely touched his own face. Sherlock shut his eyes, tears seeping out from under the long lashes.  John could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s tears as they passed through his fingers and down Sherlock’s cheeks.  “I don’t know what we can do,” John said sadly.  “Just please...I don’t want you to go back down that road again.  You’re so brilliant without them.  You don’t need them, Sherlock.”_

 

Sherlock opened his eyes, his heart aching.  He stared into John’s eyes, deep blue even in their translucence.  “It’s not the drugs I’m addicted to, John.  It’s not the drugs that I need,” he answered, hoping that John understood.  John smiled wistfully at him and opened his mouth to reply.  But instead of hearing John’s answer, Sherlock watched in horror as John slowly began to fade before him, his voice becoming a distant mumble. Sherlock had hoped for more time, but cocaine highs were notoriously short.  “No! No! No!” he shouted in frustration.  

 

Sherlock threw himself on the couch.  He needed to go into his Mind Palace to ride out the crash and try to sort out what had happened.  He still wasn’t quite sure John wasn’t just a hallucination brought on by the drugs and the intense emotions he’d pushed down for so many years. Closing his eyes he entered the passages of his Mind Palace, searching for something to explain what he’d been experiencing prior to and during his high.  First, there was the fluttering note on the fridge, followed by that icy wall he’d walked into.  Was there anything in the flat that could have caused either of those incidents?  Sherlock entered the room reserved for 221B in his head.  He ransacked it from top to bottom, finding no notes or images that could present a logical reason.  Second, the shade behind Mrs. Hudson, moving in a distinctly human fashion and then as it passed the fridge, the note fluttering again. He stepped out of the room into a strange hallway.  He noticed a light bulb, flickering further down the corridor.  He remembered that thought he’d had after the first time the note fluttered. The old wives tale of spirits trapped in between worlds.  

 

Sherlock dashed in the direction of the light bulb.  He turned down the passageway it dimly illuminated.  Opening doors, he found black nothingness and empty rooms.  He’d deleted anything he’d once read or learned about the paranormal due to lack of proof and rationality.  Cursing himself, he continued slowly down the dusty hallways of his mind hoping to find something, anything that might help.  He came upon a room that wasn’t as dusty as the others.  He opened the door and found that the room was reserved for superstitions and old wive’s tales.  He’d kept them only as reasons a suspect might act irrationally, but now he thought they could be of use.  He found the section on ghosts and spirits and began reading.  But there were so many about why spirits were trapped, how to release them, how to see them, and they all varied by culture.  It was useless and he was wasting time.  Sherlock decided he’d been in here long enough.  He stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him in frustration.  But instead of finding the dusty hallway, he found himself in front of the door to John’s wing of his Mind Palace.

 

Why had he emerged here?  Sherlock thought back over the conversation he’d had with John during his high.  What was it John had said at the beginning?  About a note and the family Bible.  Sherlock hurried through the rooms of John’s wing to the one that contained the books he knew John had read or owned.  Sherlock knew John had kept the family Bible, but he couldn’t remember ever opening it.  Sherlock had his own for research purposes and had never needed a reason to use John’s.  Sure enough, when Sherlock opened the book, it was full of grey empty pages.  

 

His eyes shot open, as he abruptly left his Mind Palace.  Sherlock jumped off the couch and raced upstairs to John’s bedroom.  He pulled open the bottom drawer of John’s desk, finding the book he was looking for.  He pulled it out, fingering through it, looking.  There, in the book of Ruth, was John’s letter from his mother.  John was right, he wasn’t losing his mind!

 

Sherlock rushed back to the table.  He needed more; more data, more drugs, more John.  Maybe a larger dose could make the high last longer. Sherlock fumbled with the set up, quickly preparing another dose.  As he plunged the needle back into his arm, he looked at the place John had been and said, sinking to his knees, “I’m sorry.”

_John couldn’t believe what he was seeing.   He was powerless to stop it.  One minute he’d been watching as Sherlock went into his Mind Palace, and then, in less than five minutes, the younger man had snapped out of wherever he went when he descended into his head and was dashing up the stairs.  John followed as Sherlock found the proof he’d been looking for and then madly tore back down to the kitchen.  John knew it had only been a matter of minutes, but Sherlock often lost track of time in his Mind Palace.  Sherlock must have thought more time had passed than it really had.  He would have known better than to try and take such a large dose so close to the original hit._

 

_John turned away, his face in his hands, unable to watch Sherlock, and afraid of might happen.  He knew the original dose paired with this one could kill him.  “You idiot.  You bloody idiot,” he sobbed, “I’m not going anywhere, I’m stuck here with you.  Shouldn’t that be enough for you to know?”   John felt his hands being lowered.  He looked up in shock at Sherlock’s hands grasping his own.  Sherlock looked at him, eyes lit up in joy._

 

_“I told you John!  I told you this was possible!  I can touch you!”  Sherlock exclaimed excitedly.  He wrapped the shorter man in his arms, holding him close._

 

_John turned his head and looked at the figure lying on the floor behind him.  “But at what cost, Sherlock?” he asked sadly.  “You didn’t have to do that.  I wasn’t going anywhere without you.”_

_Sherlock looked over John’s shoulder at his body, slumped on the floor and then back at John.  “I’m supposed to feel sad, upset, distraught about this, aren’t I?  This is supposed to be the worst thing that can happen to a person, is it not?  But John, I know you and I know what you’ve witnessed since your death.  You’ve watched me grieve.  I know how that must have affected you.  I can see it in your eyes.  You’ve seen how I’ve been.  I have not been myself.  I haven’t been able to think, work, concentrate, anything that would help make the grief better.  Would you not agree that what you’ve had to go through and what I’ve been through is worse than that?”  Sherlock nodded at the still form no longer housing the great detective.  “I am here now.  We can talk, we can touch, and I can finally do this.”  Sherlock took John’s face in his hands, leaned in and kissed John’s lips, before wrapping him tighter in his arms.  “This is far better than the living hell I was going through without you.”_

 

_John could find nothing in him to disagree with Sherlock. “Now what?” he asked._

  
_“I haven’t a clue, but won’t it be glorious to solve this mystery together?” Sherlock said, grinning._

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like John getting killed trying to save Sherlock and Sherlock losing his mind are Sherlock's two biggest fears. And John's is Sherlock dying and John not being able to save him. It may not be a horror story, but the fear is very much real for the two of them.
> 
> Many, many thanks to: Beltainefaerie who was my content beta. Without her, the journey through Sherlock's Mind Palace may not have existed. KrisKenshin who was my doc sitter and cheerleader. Torchwood221b who kept my Sherlock, Sherlock. And last but not least, Oldamongdreams who was my grammar nazi and comma commando.


End file.
